


'Bout a Ghost From a Wishing Well

by maybemalapert (laconicisms)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Happy Ending, Incest, M/M, Reichenbach Falls, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/maybemalapert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What must it be like in your feeble little minds that don't expand beyond the barriers of your own skulls?</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Bout a Ghost From a Wishing Well

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings, kinks and contents:** incest, consent issues (Sherlock is 16 and 17); young Sherlock being fascinated by dead people, first times, telepathy, Reichenbach, happy ending
> 
> I messed around with the age difference a little. ACD canon!Mycroft is seven years older; I made Mycroft four years older here. Title taken from Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could Read My Mind".
> 
> Many, many thanks to kindofawkward and a8c_sock for betaing. ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> This was written for the sherlockbbc Commfest Semi-Exchange and posted anonymously [here](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/4870196.html). My giftee asked for telepathy, dark and dodgy Sherlock/Mycroft and Sherlock/John romance.

_You couldn't be any more special if you tried._

He didn't try, _hadn't_ tried. That didn't change a thing.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was special; his mother had known that right from the beginning as had his father, though they never figured out how right they were. Mycroft had needed a bit of time to come around to the realisation but once he had, no one could stop him from going around and talking about his little brother, Sherlock, who was so smart, much smarter than any other four-year-old, and didn't Mycroft have the best brother in the existence of brothers?

Sherlock thought so, too. (Why would he not?) He also thought that Mycroft was the second best brother (if Sherlock was first best, Mycroft must be second best) and he knew how much Mycroft adored him, though he didn't understand why, at first.

Sherlock knew a lot of things. He knew, for instance, that Ms Thomas, who was their nanny, had a boyfriend, who liked her lots (he gave her lots of presents), but whom Ms Thomas didn't really want to spend the rest of her life with. When Sherlock asked her why, she looked at him strangely like she didn't know what Sherlock was talking about and when Sherlock explained she became very flustered and wanted to know how he knew.

And...and Sherlock did not have an answer for that. He just did; he knew.

He told her so.

For some reason, Ms Thomas didn't believe him. It took Sherlock an embarrassingly long while to figure out why.

 

* * *

 

People's minds, Mycroft told him a year later just as Sherlock was about to enter school (early), are like castles. Impenetrable to outside forces.

But-, Sherlock said.

Yes, Mycroft snapped. I know. They're not like us. You must be like them, however, outwardly at least, and you must hide. It's paramount.

Mycroft liked the word 'paramount'. He used it a lot.

But how, Sherlock asked, and Mycroft huffed and grabbed his shoulders and twisted him around.

Look, he said, that man over there. His face is turned downwards and his shoulders are slumped, but his hands are fisted. That means he's giving in about something, but he's angry about it. You need to observe, Sherlock. Observe, so if people ask, you can tell them _how you know_.

I understand, Sherlock replied, looking at Mr Morris, with whom Ms Thomas was breaking up.

But I'm not happy about it, he thought, and Mycroft sighed.

I know, he replied. I know.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock made a castle from his mind. It was the only way to keep track of all the information that kept piling up inside his brain. On the left side, and down the stairs, there were the things that he knew but could not explain because he had not observed. On the right, also down the stairs, were the things that he knew because he had observed them. There was also an extra room, right near the entrance, for all the different methods of observation, the lines along which his mind could move. Originally it had been the porter's lodge, but no porter's lodge could be big enough to fit what Sherlock referred to as his toolkit, so it was now a side room. A big side room. It was still expanding.

The castle with its two sides wasn't the most efficient way to keep track of what he _knew_ and what he had _observed_. For one, he had to move information from one side to the other whenever he figured something out by looking at people. For another, he made one blunder after another, talking about things he couldn't explain his knowledge of.

It made people think he was a freak.

It also made him want to avoid people because if he read books or looked at objects, he didn't just simply _know_ things and there was no way he could mess up. He either observed or didn't. This was also way less boring. Here he _had_ to puzzle things out, actually think. And Sherlock liked puzzles.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after his tenth birthday (Mycroft had given him a skull and Sherlock had told him that he'd figured out the difference between inside the mind and outside the mind already, thank you very much, but he'd take the skull because it was quite interesting), Sherlock finally met a person he didn't just simply know things about - or, well, not any longer because, of course, he'd met grandaunt Adelaide a few times before her death. So, he was aware that she hated cats and thought her late brother, Sherlock's grandfather who had died long before Sherlock was born, had been in bed with too many women of ill repute - whatever this meant - sometimes several of them at the same time.

So Sherlock stood next to the coffin that held grandaunt Adelaide and marvelled, amazed at the lack of anything, anything at all.

Stop smiling, Mycroft hissed at him from Sherlock's right. Sherlock, stop.

I, Sherlock began, and meant to finish with 'can't tell anything about her', but that wasn't true. Sherlock looked, and observed, and noticed that grandaunt Adelaide was wearing the earrings that aunt Walpurga (not really an aunt, a distant family friend, distant like grandaunt Adelaide) usually wore, and that aunt Walpurga (near the back, far from the coffin) looked very, very sad indeed.

Marvellous, Sherlock breathed, and could not have stopped himself from smiling even if he had wanted to.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft thought that Sherlock was the best brother in existence, and then he changed his mind.

Or he didn't.

But Sherlock didn't know that until Mycroft finally stopped avoiding him, and that was mainly because Sherlock had arranged matters so that he couldn't, or Mummy had actually after Sherlock had moped a sufficiently long time. Christmas dinner. Everyone was invited, and she had let Mycroft know that if he didn't return from Oxford to celebrate with the family she would be quite cross with him.

Sherlock was already cross even though Mycroft did come. He was so irritated, in fact, that it wasn't until he had cornered Mycroft up in Mycroft's room that Sherlock finally _knew_ why Mycroft had been avoiding him.

Sherlock was fifteen, and Mycroft was nineteen, and absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Such an utterly inane saying.

They (Mycroft) should have heeded it when they (Mycroft) decided that absence, yes indeed, was best as matters stood.

I'm not a child, Sherlock raged, and Mycroft looked sad and said, yes, you are.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was sixteen (almost, almost seventeen) and ached, and Mycroft knew this, of course, he knew, and Sherlock knew that he knew and Mycroft knew that Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew and _Mycroft did nothing_.

Let it never be said that Sherlock did not take action when required.

Christmas again. Mycroft's room - again. The middle of the night now. The moon shining just brightly enough to navigate his way towards Mycroft's bed. Sherlock kneeling down next to it, hand reaching for the blanket, pulling it back carefully.

Sherlock placing a kiss on Mycroft's forehead - and Mycroft awaking.

"Sherlock."

"Let me."

In the dark, Mycroft couldn't see his face and Sherlock couldn't see Mycroft's, but they'd never needed to anyway.

Sherlock's mouth travelled down, laying kiss after kiss on Mycroft's face, claiming each and every inch of it until he came to his mouth ("You're mine; you're mine.") and plunged his tongue inside.

Sloppy, wet, and awkward, teeth clicking together as Mycroft surged upward (to stop him, to demand more, confusion of conscience and desire), but perfect, oh so perfect.

The pyjamas they both were wearing turned into a hindrance, so Sherlock pulled and pulled and didn't care as buttons went flying (they'll know, they'll know; shut up, shut up; just throw them away or hide them or something). Off with their tops, and here now, Mycroft's chest pressed against Sherlock's and Sherlock's against Mycroft's, breathing pushing them against each other while their hearts beat faster than they've ever beaten before.

Of course, Mycroft pulled back, hands clenching, empty.

"Stop feeling guilty," Sherlock whispered harshly. "You're ruining it." You ruin everything. You made me miss you so hard. You loved me, you adored me, and then you _left_.

"Sherlock, you're-"

Over the age of consent. Perfectly sane for a Holmes. Entirely sober. "Perfectly willing, as you well know."

Still hesitant, Mycroft was still-

"We're not like them; we're not." Sherlock growled.

They were more, and they could do more, and Sherlock needed more. Now.

"You'll hate me. Later, you'll--."

Sherlock crushed their mouths together again as if that would shut him up. I'll hate you more if you don't. Later.

Might as well enjoy it now.

Mycroft groaned and Sherlock could feel his resistance melting to nothing as he let his hands touch Sherlock back. They were cold and as Mycroft's fingertips travelled down Sherlock's spine, goose bumps started to rise on his skin.

"I want," Sherlock breathed. I want your hands on my cock because I'm burning up and I will explode and need to be doused with cold or I. Won't. Last.

"You're sixteen," Mycroft murmured against his neck, lips barely brushing skin. He thought it, too, and Sherlock grasped _Mycroft's_ cock through the pyjama bottoms and the thought skittered away from his brother's brain, washed away in sensation.

Sherlock began to tug at fabric and Mycroft (hands going away, needed leverage) lifted his hips. Once freed, Mycroft's cock stood proudly (big, he was - no, average, but _perception_ , need to remain objective). Sherlock leaned forward and down, licked his lips.

Licked Mycroft's cock from head to base.

Then did it again.

"Sher-" Mycroft bit himself off, breath harsh. Sherlock took it as encouragement (it was), opened his mouth and went down on him. Tried to, did not get far, didn't need to get far because Mycroft was barely hanging on as it was and Sherlock himself had to resist humping his leg (undignified).

It did not take long. Four, five times of moving up and down as far as he could, and Mycroft was coming - _in Sherlock's mouth_ and, and Sherlock didn't need more than that to tip over the edge as well.

He slumped beside Mycroft, spent for the moment (refractory period of half an hour, night far from over, very much far from over) and murmured, "Not hating you yet."

 

* * *

 

Mycroft went back to university three days later, but that was fine because Sherlock would follow next year.

 

* * *

 

They were careful; they were careful right up until the second close call (student halls - not conducive to clandestine meetings) and Mycroft got cold feet.

Dangerous and foolish, Sherlock.

Guilt complex, Mycroft. Entirely unnecessary, I assure you.

Not good for your emotional development.

Sherlock laughed at that. As if this were about me.

Mummy would be horrified if she found out.

"You're just afraid it will harm your future career." Not true, not true, they both knew, though it did play a minor role.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded his head. "I'm glad that you see."

This, Sherlock understood, was final. "I hate you."

And Mycroft smiled. "I knew you would."

Big brother knows all.

 

* * *

 

On some days, Sherlock liked to imagine that the skull was Mycroft's. Actually Mycroft's, not just a present from him. He liked holding it; he liked petting it and staring at it and even (especially) sticking a finger through its socket (sometimes because he was angry; sometimes because he wanted to penetrate Mycroft's mind, nestle inside, sticking to the insides like a burr to a woollen coat, so that no one (Mycroft) could ever separate them ever again).

 

* * *

 

"The skull?"

"Friend of mine. Well, I say 'friend'."

John Watson didn't turn out to be what one would call ordinary. He was like a light, or a bomb, blowing through Sherlock's walls and setting his mind afire with his words of amazement (you're amazing, you're brilliant), turning a drab castle into a palace of shining light.

John was amazing -- when he didn't inconveniently kill people Sherlock wanted to question.

 

* * *

 

The pill was harmless, Sherlock knew, but whoever had shot the man hadn't, of course. Now the cabbie was bleeding out on the floor, and refusing to even think the name. "The name," Sherlock growled. "Give me the name." He pressed his foot into his shoulder because pain was a great motivator and there wasn't enough time.

"Moriarty," the cabbie thought, crying it out, and the name blazed through the entrance hall of Sherlock's mind, settling on the left, downstairs, no, no, wrong, move to the right, cross reference, no data, blank space.

Nothing. He knew nothing about this man.

_Brilliant._

* * *

 

Blank space.

He almost couldn't breathe.

 _Blank._ Utterly, utterly blank.

Sherlock stared at the man behind John, completely baffled. Did he not think? Did he not live? Was Moriarty the walking dead? (Not possible, erroneous conclusion, delete.)

Or was his mind an impenetrable fortress? Could he _block people like Sherlock out?_ (Not impossible, improbable, yet, ultimately right.)

For a moment, Sherlock almost forgot about the Semtex (this was marvellous; Moriarty was marvellous), but fear and _John_ and fear for John were great motivators.

And if I cannot penetrate your skull one way, Sherlock thought, hand steady on John's gun, I will another.

 

* * *

 

Not yet, however. He wondered who was on the phone.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had seen many women naked. Admittedly, all but the one currently in front of him had been dead at that point, but still, he had seen many.

Irene Adler standing before him in nothing but her skin should not make his mind stutter to a halt, then trip over itself as it tried to figure out how it could explain knowing what Sherlock knew. There was always something, some clue (fingers, nails, hair style, idiot, _something_ ).

He gave her his coat, and his mind started moving smoothly once more.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock did not entirely rely on his power of simply _knowing_ (it wasn't reading, this telepathy of his, it wasn't really listening either; it was a thousand radios running different programs all at the same time). It wasn't that he considered it cheating; using your gifts wasn't cheating. It was just that life, already boring beyond the point that he could bear most days, turned even more tedious when he listened to all the petty little thoughts and concerns of all the petty little people around him.

Some days, though, no, on particular days, Sherlock used it, tried to.

And became frustrated when faced with the fortress that was Jim Moriarty.

What question, he thought, mind moving faster than it ever had before. (Nothing, though, compared to how fast it moved, needed to move, on the day that he jumped off a building.)

 

* * *

 

Caring was not an advantage. It made you hurt the ones you loved the most, and Sherlock finally, finally understood, hands clenched into fists as John stood there, at Sherlock's grave, and wishing with all his heart and mind, _wishing_ , and Sherlock wanted to leave his castle (so dark now, dark and lonely), sent out his mind to John's mind and pierce his non-impenetrable walls, let John's mind know that Sherlock was still here, still alive, and would do anything, everything, to keep John safe.

But Sherlock was confined within these walls until all, each and every one of Moriarty's little spiders were dead.

It could not happen fast enough.

 

* * *

 

"I hate you," John said when Sherlock came back from the dead, now standing in the kitchen of 221b Baker Street. I hate you, he said and thought, I love you, I missed you so much, I want you, I want to run my hands through your hair and down your back. I want to sink to my knees and worship you as you deserve when you're not being an arse. I want to press into you and claim you. I want you to claim _me_ with kisses and scratches and bites, and I don't care if it sounds crazy but I want to leave my mark on you as you have left your mark on my soul and most of all I want you to kiss me now, now, _now_ before my heart bursts.

"I knew you would," Sherlock replied and leant forward and kissed John.

If you could read my mind love

What a tale my thoughts could tell

Just like an old time movie

'Bout a ghost from a wishin' well

In a castle dark or a fortress strong

With chains upon my feet

You know that ghost is me

And I will never be set free

As long as I'm a ghost that you can't see.


End file.
